


Seven Ways It Might Have Happened

by rexluscus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Hate Sex, M/M, Rape, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven ficlets about Severus Snape and Peter Pettigrew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Ways It Might Have Happened

**Author's Note:**

> This series of ficlets isn't connected, except for the first and last ones.

**version i. EVEN**

 

He was reminded all day long. Snape was smarter. Snape was the more powerful wizard. Snape was the Dark Lord's favourite. Snape this. Snape that.

Well, there was one thing Peter could do that Snape couldn't.

The bedroom door was always locked and warded, but Snape didn't count on the spaces between the walls. Inside the room, it was stuffy and hot; orange light from the street glared ghastly and livid around the edges of crumbling plastic blackout shades. Peter scurried noiselessly across the balding carpet and climbed the bed sheets like a tiny jungle commando.

He could smell Snape's skin, warm and fragrant against the thin sheets and the old grey nightshirt. His rapid rodent pulse quickened as he made out Snape's sour breath sharp with alcohol, the sweet oniony scent of his armpits, the heavy musky animal smell of his crotch. He'd never been this close to something he wanted; it was almost too much excitement to bear.

Carefully skirting the still form, he burrowed under cotton until he found the edge of the nightshirt, threadbare and colorless with age. Tiny rat teeth and nimble rat paws made quick work of interfering cloth. Once Snape's skinny body was exposed to the air, only one thing remained.

He took care not to disturb the dark head as he pushed his way under the pillow. That was the problem with keeping your wand close when you slept, Snape old boy—it only helped if you got to it first. Peter laid a paw on the hard wood and spoke the incantation as his body became abruptly human.

" _Stupefy!_ "

Black eyes had only a moment to register their shock as they snapped open, then clouded over and sagged shut. The rigid limbs under Peter's now-significant weight went slack.

Maybe he would Obliviate him, he thought as he hoisted Snape's legs around his hips and sank his cock into tight, sucking heat. It seemed the safest thing to do. Better yet, a quick _Avada Kedavra_ would solve his problems more permanently. But no—he wanted to do this again. He'd always been a dab hand at Memory Charms; with a bit of doing, this arrangement could continue for quite some time. The sneers and insults would be so much easier to bear during the day, knowing what waited for him at night.

Snape's limp body gave without resistance, head lolling like a broken puppet's as it was jostled by Peter's thrusts. He could do anything to Snape right now—anything at all. That thought alone was just as exciting as the body itself, with its soft black hair like lacquer against skin as pale as porcelain. Snape was so much nicer like this—no snarls and curses to send him cowering to his room, no insults paying him back for some imagined childhood wrong, just sweet, silent willingness—the perfect lover, really.

He came quickly, huffing and howling, then lay for a moment where he'd collapsed on Snape's chest, breathing the aroma of sex and sweat. How many insults and indignities did this cancel, approximately? How much of this until they were even?

But they could never be even—not as long as he was there to provide the final insult himself. _Poor Peter Pettigrew—has to Stun his lovers to get them to have him_ , said a nasty voice in his head as stared at the body laying motionless as a corpse. And the voice that said this sounded remarkably like Snape's.

 

 **version ii. SUBSTITUTE**

 

Rats lived on crumbs and scraps, after all, so Peter was used to the idea.

"Clean these dishes," Snape would bark, and stalk out of the kitchen. Peter had plenty of food on his own plate, but once Snape was gone, the crust of bread Snape had left on his plate would make its way into Peter's sweaty hand, and then his pocket. It would stay there all day, coming out to be nibbled when Peter was feeling particularly excoriated and alone.

"I'm going out for a while," Snape would announce to nobody in particular, and get up from his chair. Once the front door had slammed shut, Peter would kneel before the chair and lay his head in the warm impression, inhaling Snape's heat and smell, rubbing his face against fabric Snape's body had touched.

"This wine's gone off, I think," says Snape, licking a drop of red from his upper lip and handing the mostly full glass back to Peter. In the kitchen, out of sight, Peter drinks it down in one go, barely tasting it, then runs his tongue disconsolately around the glass's rim, knowing Snape's lips had been here too.

"I expect the linens to be done when I return," Snape commands, and Peter barely waits till he's gone to rush into the bedroom and tear the sheets from Snape's bed. He wads them up, buries his face in them and drags in a deep breath, as though this were the only kind of air he can live on. Later, he takes the discarded robe off the back of a chair and cradles it against his body, his limp and languid dance partner.

"I'm for bed," Snape slurs, having had one drink too many. Peter creeps up the stairs once he's gone, and sees a light where the bedroom door has not completely closed.

Then he hears sounds, and there's no way he can resist. He goes toward the silver of light as though in a trance, looks through the crack in the door without fear of consequence. And when he does, his blood freezes in his veins.

"Ah, Wormtail," says Snape, with an imperious smile.

He's nude to the waist and his trousers gape open. His fist is slippery with something wet and his cock slides through it slowly and steadily, back and forth. Peter's eyes follow it, unblinking. He cannot breathe.

"Come here and touch me," Snape hisses, sharp teeth glinting. "I know that's what you'd like."

Snape's white skin gleams with a thin film of sweat. The hair on his chest lies in little swirls, and the hair under his arms sticks to his sides. The head of his beautiful cock glistens as it vanishes rhythmically into his hand. His tousled dark head falls back with a soft moan.

And it's too much, too close, too real. Peter turns and flees.

 

 **version iii. CONVENIENCE**

 

"All right, let's get this over with…"

"Can I have a go on top this time?"

"Are you barmy? You went on top last time. And believe me, having your tiny prick poking around down there was not even remotely worth the indignity. Wasn't even sure you were _in_ half the time…"

Quietly. "'S not _that_ small."

"Like hell. You're on bottom, no arguing. It's that or nothing—I'll be fine, my hand's been good enough for me for twenty years…"

"All right, all right. Blimey." A belt buckle hitting the floor.

"…"

"…"

"Here—would you—yes, that's right. Ahhh—"

"Ow!"

"Er—sorry. Merlin, 's bloody dark in here…"

" _You_ wanted it that way."

A dark chuckle. "I'm beginning to remember why."

"Bastard…"

"All right, try again—bend over, there's a good chap—bit more—ahhh…!"

"Oh, my…oh—right there—up a bit—uhhn!"

"…"

"Would you, er…mind helpin' a bloke out?"

"What? Oh—right—"

"Agh, Merlin—! Fuckin' hell, your hand's like ice—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, would you stop whining?"

"…"

"Fine. Here…is that better?"

"Ah, _there's_ the stuff. Oh, _blimey_ that's good…ahh—"

"Quit your infernal babbling! I'm trying not to be reminded who I'm fucking, if possible."

"Well, excuse me, gov'ner…"

"Oh, come off it."

"…"

"Well? Out with it, Wormtail. Who do _you_ think about? And don't try to brownnose and say it's me…"

"Like I'd bother. I, er…no one in particular."

"Rubbish. Want to know who I think about?"

"If you're talking."

"That Muggle prince…whatsisname…the blond one."

"Oh, er. Yeah. William, think it is."

"That's the one. Good heavens, the _arse_ on that creature…"

"Oh fine, I'll tell ya. 'S Remus Lupin."

"You must be having me on. Remus bloody—Mister sodding I-Think-Suede-Elbow-Patches-Make-Me-Look-Sophisticated Lupin?"

"I picture him when he was sixteen, you prat. _You_ never lived with him— _you_ never saw what he kept in his trousers—"

"Thank God. He'd probably still be haunting my erotic nightmares to this day. Instead of just my ordinary nightmares."

" _This_ is an erotic nightmare, this is. Are you even close yet?"

"Oh, quit complaining. Here, you'll like this—"

" _Bloody_ hell—ah—thought you were gonna take it off for a second there."

"Nice, though, isn't it?"

"'S all right. Got any other tricks?"

"Of course. Here—"

" _Nah_ —! Oh, God…ah…no _wait_ don't—why are you stopping, you bas—? Ahh, that's it…just like that…mmmm…"

"Nnnn…ah, _fuck_ …hahhh…"

"…"

"…"

"Ah—ah—ah—! … Ahhhh…"

"…"

"Er. Snape—? You done, then?"

"Yes, dammit, I finished before you."

"Didn't hear ya."

"That's because I didn't feel the need to make a big production of it."

"…"

"You planning on staying all night or something?"

"I'm going, I'm going. Merlin, like I'd want to sleep _here_ …"

"Go and have your sweet dreams of Remus Lupin."

"Knew I shouldn'a told you that."

"Yes. Yes, you really should know better by now, shouldn't you?"

"Night, then, Snape."

A sigh. "Goodnight, Wormtail. Shut off the light in the hall, would you?"

"Thanks for the hand."

"I'd say 'anytime,' but I'm afraid I wouldn't mean it."

"Right, then. 'Night."

"Oh, get _out_ of here, for Merlin's sake."

 

 **version iv. ALONE, TOGETHER**

 

Peter wonders what Snape knows. He wonders if Snape guesses he does this every night.

After they retire for the evening, each of them lies in his bed in an illusion of solitude, though there can't be more than six feet between them. The wall is ancient plaster that's not much more than powder, held together by decades of paint coats, which by now must be half an inch thick. There is a chink at the top of the warped wainscoting right above Peter's bed, and if he presses his eye flush against the wall, he can see Snape lying in his short, narrow bed, curled on his side, face turned toward Peter.

Snape's routine is remarkably rigid, and so Peter's becomes that way too. At first, Snape lies still, his breaths deepening, eyes closed as though he's going to sleep. But after ten minutes, he casts off the sheet and pulls his nightshirt above his waist, and stays still that way for a moment, just letting the air touch his uncovered cock. When he's ready, his fingers brush through the hair at his groin, and he pets himself softly before taking his prick gently in hand.

This is always the point at which Peter can't help slipping his own hand in his drawers. It's so tender, the way Snape does it, as though he were seducing himself, so sweet and teasing. Peter pretends that tenderness is for him, and he's gentle with his own prick too as he covers it with a sweaty palm. Snape strokes himself erect and then lifts his knee so he can cup his bollocks, breath quickening, lines of concentration appearing on his brow. Peter speeds his strokes a bit as he watches Snape's elegant white hand flex and strain around his sac, and soon Snape's other hand is squeezing the rigid cock now glistening at the tip. Thin lips part and teeth glint dully in the dark, and small, soft noises are now finding their way through the chink to Peter's ears.

When Snape licks his palm, Peter always goes light-headed with a new flush of arousal, and the wet sound of that gorgeous cock sliding against skin tempts Peter to make his own noises, but he doesn't dare. Snape's hand moves faster now, jerking hard, all tenderness gone, and the other hand hikes up the nightshirt further so fingers can reach one red nipple.

It's often at this moment that Peter comes, face pressed hard into his pillow, doing everything he can to heave his deep sucking breaths in silence. Snape always goes a bit longer, but he comes quietly too, choking a groan back in his throat as his thin hips jerk, his come dowsing the sheets. They clean themselves up together, Peter tucking his limp cock away as Snape rights his nightshirt and wraps the sheet around his thin curled form. Sometimes Peter watches until Snape falls asleep; sometimes he drops back onto the bed the second it is over.

 

It's comforting to think that perhaps Snape knows. Perhaps he knows and does nothing, lets Peter take this small thing without exacting his usual price.

He doesn't want to think about what might happen should Snape suddenly decide his debt has come due.

 

 **version v. NIGHT AND DAY**

 

Neither of them ever spoke of it. During daylight hours, it might as well never have happened.

The first time, Peter was so startled and upset that he could only sit up in bed, frozen, as Snape wept and muttered and sobbed into his lap, stiff fingers pressing into Peter's hips hard enough to leave small, round bruises. The front of his nightshirt was soaked through with Snape's tears and snot, and that just added to the unreality of the situation—because Snape was not supposed to have either tears or snot, or blood, or anything wet. His body was stuffed with sawdust as far as Peter knew, and his eyes were made of charcoal and his mouth full of cobwebs. Not a living thing at all.

When the shaking and sobbing had stopped (much to Peter's relief—he'd always been intensely discomfited by tears) Snape had given him another surprise when he'd lifted wet, unfocused eyes to Peter's face with an expression that had to belong to another man—that was it, this had to be someone using polyjuice, because the Snape Peter knew could never have had that look on his face—and insinuated his hands between Peter's legs. Too afraid to get up and bolt, Peter had sat stock still as Snape had taken out his cock and sucked on it fiercely, the kind of aggressive, determined performance that never stopped to feel but focused entirely on the end. Peter had come with a wild, vertigo-inducing jolt, and by the time he'd caught his breath and opened his eyes, Snape had already left. Peter had touched the large moisture stain on his nightshirt—tears, snot, come—and wondered what in the hell had just happened to him.

Peter had greeted the next morning with considerable anxiety. He finally showed his face at breakfast, resolved not to react, to simply let Snape decide on the steps for their morning-after dance. But all Snape had done was to meet his eyes a little longer and more directly than usual, with a flat, stony look that seemed to be daring Peter to break the silence. Peter didn't.

And so Peter had lain awake for several nights in a row, unsure if it was excitement or dread (and later, if it was relief or disappointment) that kept him from sleeping. On the fifth night, Snape returned, and this time after trembling in Peter's lap for some time, he gently removed Peter's nightshirt and climbed on top of him, and they rubbed themselves off against each other, gasping and shouting into each other's necks. After that, Peter could no longer tell himself that this was something being done to him, because he was doing it just as passionately in return.

The cycle was erratic—sometimes Snape appeared several nights in a row, but often not once for weeks at a time. All Peter could do was go to bed each night and wait, to see if that strange dream would return, because it was like a dream—for all its vividness, it had no more reality under the light of day than if he'd imagined every moment.

 

 **version vi. PROXY**

 

Peter knows that when Snape looks at him, he sees Peter flanked by the ghosts of James and Sirius.

As Snape's knee digs into his chest and his cock jams down his throat, Peter knows that for Snape, it is still twenty-five years ago. They are in the broom shed at Hogwarts, not on Spinner's End. Their skin is spotty; their bodies are awkward and unmarked.

Snape gasps, and floods Peter's throat with bitterness that his gorge spasms to reject. He knows he's only here because two others are not. These aren't his own crimes he is paying for.

 

 **version i. continued. UNEVEN**

 

After three nighttime visits to Snape, Peter had a sudden, horrifying realisation.

Snape was a Legilimens.

All that would have to happen would be for Snape to take one peek inside his mind, for whatever reason, and Peter would be dead. Of that he had no doubt. The memories in his head were a sword suspended above him that could fall at any moment, with no warning.

So really, that left him no choice. He would have to kill Snape. The sooner, the better.

It was regrettable. He'd become quite attached to that pale, pliant body in the last few nights. It seemed like such a waste. He decided he would stay out of the reach of Snape's mind for the rest of the day so they could have one more night together.

And because it was their last night, Peter would make it special.

" _Incarcerous!_ "

This time, as Peter sat astride Snape's chest and cast the spell with Snape's own wand, Snape did not slip into unconsciousness. He stared, eyes wide and furious and very much awake, as four sturdy ropes pulled him spread-eagled and bound his limbs to the bed.

"What in the bloody—"

" _Silencio!_ "

Peter watched Snape try to scream with a shiver of dark amusement. He held Snape's livid gaze as he sat back and pushed the nightshirt up Snape's body to bunch under his arms.

He liked the ropes, he decided. The way Snape struggled against them made his muscles tighten and ripple under his skin in a very charming way. He felt a pang of disappointment that he'd been too afraid to do this until tonight; it was far more satisfying when Snape knew exactly what was happening to him. And now this was the last time he'd ever have the chance.

Peter loosened the ropes on Snape's ankles and lifted his knees, exposing Snape's tight little arsehole, then wasted no time in forcing his cock inside. It required much more spit this time to ease the passage because Snape was doing his best to prevent a smooth entry. Once in, though, Peter sighed with the incomparable pleasure of it, setting a lazy pace of slow, deep thrusts. He wanted this to last. Really, it was such a shame Snape would soon be dead, hateful bastard though he was.

Leaning forward so he could brace his hands on either side of Snape's chest, Peter lowered his mouth to one tight nipple, garishly red against the bloodless skin. He sucked and kissed his way from chest to throat to armpit, nipping at prominent ribs, nuzzling soft hair that ran from sternum to crotch. Such a delightful body. Snape's arse around his cock was sweet perfection and he thrust harder, wanting to take as much from this body as it could give.

Gradually he became aware that Snape's face was no longer contorted in rage—his eyelids were fluttering and his mouth hung open in a silent cry. Legs were no longer trying to kick him off—instead, they were wrapped tightly around his waist, squeezing, pulling him rhythmically inside. Peter could feel a half-hard cock poking him in the belly.

It was impossible. It was too good to be true. The bastard _liked_ this.

Peter swelled with triumph. He'd turned Severus Snape into a begging slut, and he'd done it all by himself. No one could take this away from him—not James and Sirius, not the Dark Lord, and certainly not Snape. His arousal spiked and he pounded jerkily into Snape's unresisting arse, head swimming with pride and pleasure. Suddenly inspired, he removed the Silencing Spell.

Snape's voice was the stuff of dreams. "Oh, Merlin—Peter—oh, God, _fuck_ me—"

It took no more than a few words of that breathy, sex-slurred babbling to send Peter shooting hard and long, howling half in ecstasy, half in victory.

"Peter…" Snape murmured as they lay together panting. "Peter, you stupid bastard…all you had to do was ask…"

He looked up. Snape was gazing down at him with a lopsided smile. He felt his world breaking apart.

"Wh-why didn't you ever say anything then?" Peter asked, bewildered and wary.

"Thought you'd laugh," Snape said softly. For a moment, Peter was looking at the awkward, lonely child Snape had been, sensitive and vulnerable and savagely protective of his bruised little heart.

"Laugh?" Peter let out a hysterical giggle. "Oh, Snape—Severus—you've no idea how long I've wanted you." He crawled up Snape's body and kissed his mouth. "The agony I've put myself through…and you thought I'd _laugh_ …" He was covering Snape's face with kisses now, his heart swelling in his chest.

If only he'd known. If only Snape had been kind to him instead of cruel, Peter would never have had to _hurt_ him like this.

"Mmm…" Snape tried to kiss back, overwhelmed by the onslaught. "Well, I feel silly _now_ …" He wriggled and pulled at the ropes holding his arms. "And for Merlin's sake, untie me, you bloody fool…"

Peter picked up Snape's wand and muttered a quick _Finite Incantatem_.

He never even knew what happened. He'd barely realised the wand had been snatched from his fingers before he heard the words _Avada Kedavra_ , and then he knew no more.


End file.
